Simon Scarrow - Under The Eagle

'Yes, sir,' Cato agreed wholeheartedly.

'You tell Macro what the situation is, and that he is to hold the gate at all costs until relieved. Do you understand me, optio?'

Cato nodded.

'Now go.'

Around the German village the day gradually dimmed into the smudged grey of approaching dusk. Once the fighting had died down, the physical heat and frenzied mental preoccupation of battle drained away and the legionaries standing to on the wall shivered in the freezing winter gloom. To make matters worse, snow had begun to fall, large flakes that drifted down lazily in the still air. The initial ambush had failed and now the Germans withdrew out of javelin range and most stood hurling abuse at the village in their harsh tongue. Others busied themselves in constructing faggots and lopping branches off young pine trees to make crude scaling ladders. The Roman defenders watched anxiously from the wall, occasionally sparing hopeless glances in the direction of the Second's fortress, a mere eight miles away. More ominously, the legionaries of the Sixth century could see that a substantial tree had been felled nearby and was well on the way to being converted into a battering ram.

Macro had not been idle either. He had ordered some men to pile small rocks on the wall to supplement the few remaining javelins and another group to pile heavier rocks and earth against the rear of the village gates to absorb the impact of the ram. These were standard counter-measures but if the Germans managed to fully co-ordinate their attack then the thin line of Romans manning the village wall would inevitably be overrun, as Macro patiently explained to his young optio while the latter bound the gash on Macro's forearm.

'What then?' Cato asked.

'What do you think?' Macro smiled thinly as he stamped his feet. 'They'll be all over us, we won't have a chance. We'll be cut to pieces.'

'Keep still please, sir. Will they take prisoners?'

'Best not even think about that,' Macro said gently. 'Believe me, you'd be better off dead.'

'Really?'

'Really.'

'The tribune said Vespasian would send help as soon as he realised something was up. If we can hold out until then…'

'Big if,' Macro replied. 'But we might. Just make sure you do your bit.'

'I will.' Cato tore off the excess from the rough dressing and tied the ends firmly. 'There you go, sir. How's it feel?'

'Not bad.' Macro flexed his arm, and winced as a shaft of pain stabbed up to his shoulder. 'It'll do. No worse than I've already had.'

'You've been injured before then, sir?'

'All part of the deal when you join the army. You'll soon get used to it.'

'If we survive.'

'We might yet.' Macro tried to sound reassuring and then, seeing the gloomy expression on the youngster's face, he punched him on the shoulder. 'Chin up lad! We're not dead yet. Not by a long way. But if we do go, well then, there's not a lot we can do about it, so we might as well not worry, eh? Now then, let's see what those bastards are up to.'

A quick inspection of the German lines in the gathering gloom of the snowflake-speckled dusk revealed no significant changes and the dull thuds of axe blows on wood continued unceasingly. Satisfied that the village was safe for the moment, Macro turned back towards Cato.

'Just going to have a word with the rest of the lads. Keep them cheerful. While I'm about it, I want you to take a couple of men and see if you can find something to eat and drink. I'm hungry. Might as well have something while we wait for Herman to stir.'

– =OO=OOO=OO-=

A quick search through the nearest huts produced a good haul of dried meat, fresh bread and several jars of the local brew.

'Go easy on that stuff,' Macro warned, speaking from bitter experience. 'Make sure no-one gets a skinful or they'll be up on charges when we get back to base.'

Cato looked over the centurion's shoulder. 'Sir! The tribune…'

Vitellius and a bodyguard of four burly men emerged from the darkened street and mounted the ramp to the gate. Macro stiffened and was about to call the century to attention but Vitellius shook his head.

'Let the men rest, Centurion. They've earned it.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you.'

'How goes it?'

'Well, as you can see,' Macro swept an arm out to indicate the ring of Germans surrounding the village, 'we're not going to be able to hold that lot off with seventy men, sir. They've been making faggots and assault ladders ever since the last attack. And over there, they've nearly finished a battering ram. Once they bring that up…'

'I see.' Vitellius scratched his chin, as if in deep contemplation. 'You'll just have to hold them back, as long as you can.'

'Yes sir… How's the rest of the cohort?'

'Our position's not too bad. We control the wall and all able-bodied villagers are being kept under guard. Quadratus's century got the worst of it. That bitch – the chief's wife – opened an outflow grill. Twenty of them got behind Quadratus's men before she was discovered. Just picking us off while the men were keeping the Germans outside the village away from the wall. Lost almost half the century before we flushed them out.'

'You can rely on Quadratus, sir.' Macro smiled.

'Not any more, took a German pike in the guts. Went clean through him.'

'No.'

'Afraid so, centurion. And the Germans managed to take down his optio as well. That's the reason why I'm here. Can you spare someone to take over from Quadratus?'

Five paces away Cato's ears burned and his blood went ice cold in anxious anticipation. He summoned up all his will power not to look at Macro and instead gazed resolutely over the wall at the Germans gathered around the fires, their faces glowing red. Adopting what he hoped was the nonchalant pose of a veteran, Cato continued listening with a pounding heart.

'Hmm.' Macro pondered, looking around, and Cato could almost sense the weight of his gaze as it rested momentarily on his back before passing on.

'What about your optio?' Vitellius asked. 'Is he a good man?'

'Hardly a man, sir. Just a new boy. Can't afford to let him out of my sight. He means well but he's nowhere near ready for what you need.'

'Pity.'

The crushing weight of rejection wrapped itself round Cato's heart. He clamped his teeth tightly and fought back tears of humiliation.

'You have anyone else?'

'Yes, sir. The standard bearer's a good man. Take him.'

'All right then.' Vitellius nodded. 'You know the score, Centurion. Hold the gate at all costs. If we can get through the night Vespasian is bound to send help in the morning. I'm counting on you. Carry on.'

'Thank you, sir.' Macro brought his hand to his chest in salute and then watched as the tribune and his bodyguard picked their way over to where the century's standard drooped above the wall.

'Wanker!' he cursed softly. 'I'm counting on you' – as if Macro didn't know his duty.

He cast a quick glance round to ensure the indiscretion had not been overheard. The stiff pose of the boy gazing fixedly over the walls was distinctly unnatural.

'Cato!'

'Sir?' The voice sounded aggrieved.

'Any sign of movement?'

'No.'

'Well, keep your eyes peeled.'

'Yes, sir.'

The tribune and his small squad walked back to the gate along the wall, the standard bearer in tow. Vitellius nodded curtly at Macro as he and his men passed.

'Take care, sir,' said the standard bearer.

'You too.' Macro smiled. 'We'll look after the standard while you're gone, Porcius.'

For a moment the standard bearer paused and looked longingly at the Sixth's standard, then with as little show of reluctance as he could muster he thrust the wooden shaft at Macro. 'Here.'

Then they were gone, disappearing into the cold darkness between the dingy German huts, leaving Macro holding the standard with its weighted banner hanging down from the horizontal cross-piece. For a moment Macro felt a strange twinge of excitement as the familiar awkwardness of the standard brought back the memories of his own year served as a standard bearer. He turned the shaft fondly and smiled at the reawakened sensibilities of a far younger man, tantalisingly visceral, then he was aware of Cato again.